A Study in Continuity
by Galaxy1001D
Summary: Watson is reviewing his notes and discovers several continuity errors. T for Holmes' drug use.


**A Study in Continuity**

_by Galaxy1001D_

It was a sunny day as a lazy drizzle filtered down from the heavens to our home at 221B Baker Street. At long last Holmes had given me permission to reveal the details of more of his cases to a hungry public. As I went over my notes, trying to determine which of our adventures best fit a narrative style, I found inconsistencies that both confounded and frustrated me.

"I say old fellow," I called over my shoulder to the tall languid figure lounging on the sofa. "I was hoping you could help me out with a spot of bother. I've run into a bit of a conundrum."

"What seems to be the trouble old chap?" Holmes drawled as he smoked his pipe. "Lost some of your documents have you?"

"No, but reading some of the notes I had transcribed I wouldn't be surprised if the public thought I lost my mind," I muttered under my breath. "I was hoping you could help me with a matter of memory," I called in a louder voice. "Exactly when did you fake your death at Reichenbach Fall? According you my notes it was May 6th, 1891."

"That sounds about right," he replied in that detached, vacant way he gets when the mood strikes him.

"You resurfaced in the spring of 1894 during the Ronald Adair affair correct?" I said as I examined my notes from the case.

"That's right," he chuckled. "And what a surprise you had too!"

"Then when did we investigate the singular experience of Mister John Eccles when he stayed at Wisteria Lodge?" I asked. "I find it recorded in my notebook that we interviewed him right here in this flat on 'a bleak and windy day towards the end of March in the year 1892.' That was ten months after you 'died' and over two years before you returned from your exile."

"Dear me!" Holmes sniggered. "A mystery for the ages! Tsk tsk, my dear Watson! No wonder you find it such a challenge to solve a mystery! If you can't keep your facts straight you'll muddle it up for other investigators!"

"It gets worse," I muttered.

"Goodness me, how so?" he teased.

"According my notes regarding your duel with Moriarty, when you appeared in my consulting-room upon the evening of April 24th back in '91, that was the first I had ever heard of the man."

"Yes, I was fleeing for my life," Holmes nodded. "I mentioned something about airguns."

"Yet when we investigated the Birlstone mystery some years earlier I made fun of you for always going on about Moriarty. Inspector MacDonald teased you about it as well. You received a coded message from one of your informants I believe. A Mister Paddock."

"Porlock," Holmes corrected.

"Yes, so there you have it," I nodded. "Another mystery given to us by the late lamented Professor Moriarty. He must have been the criminal genius you said he was if he's still posing puzzles from beyond the grave."

"Professor Moriarty doesn't hold a candle to Doctor Watson!" Holmes ejaculated before he collapsed in laughter.

"Holmes!" I turned round to face him. "Holmes!" I repeated as I rose from my chair. "What the devil's the matter with you? Are you intoxicated again?"

"Well… yes actually, laudanum," Holmes admitted. "But the true reason for my strange mirth was the puzzle you yourself presented that tops them all."

"So you figured it out then," I sighed in resignation.

"How you've been watering down my seven percent solution gradually until it's barely two percent?" Holmes frowned at me. "Yes, but not until I poked so many holes in my arm that it looked like I had fought off a porcupine. No, the true mystery is the mystery of magic bullet."

"Is this some murder you're working on?" I asked hopefully.

"No, I've been trying to determine how the bullet that lodged in your shoulder worked its way down to your leg."

"WHAT?"

"It's true," Holmes nodded. "At the beginning of your report of our first case together you didn't get to your second paragraph before you informed your reader that you were 'struck on the shoulder by a Jezail bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery.' Yet when you published our adventure regarding the Sholto murder you reported that the bullet was in your leg. Your little publication mentioned specifically mentioned your Achilles tendon, I think. Goodness me! It's no small wonder that the simple problems that come my way confound you so if you have trouble remembering where you were _shot_."

"What the devil!" I must been a comical sight, for Holmes needed no laudanum to laugh heartily at my distress. I scanned my notes and discovered that he was correct. "This is Doyle's fault!" I bawled. "I told him to change some of the details but if he can't even keep track of his own work, how am I supposed to—?"

"Please Watson, show mercy to the poor fellow," Holmes winked as he saluted me with his pipe. "It's our own fault. We told him to protect our privacy and that of our clients, and he's done so. Besides, he's not the most sensible fellow is he? I've never met a fish that would swallow any hook as your friend Doyle does. He actually believes in ghosts and fairies! You can see why he had no talent for medicine and took up writing fantastical romances! Besides, he simply _had to_ quit medicine."

"Why?"

"Because not even he can read a doctor's handwriting."

END


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